In the heaviness of this world, I work to remind myself of first. Of how unnecessary my pointer finger is for clicking and how important my eyes are for collecting the captured. My heart bundles the broken just as much as the bliss.
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Telling your story of home. Finding pieces that tell you life best.
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I am thankful for the energy out. For the joy in. Still. For the sand and the sweat. The heat. The laughter. The water. The reminder that going back is good. That staying connected is even better. That bittersweet is real and that 4 walls are just wooded beams, electrical wire and plaster. That memories are the colors we live and the pictures we hang.
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No alter calls, shiny coins clanking into the offering plate or fancy Easter dresses made me his. There is a story more valuable than mine and most worthy of being told. It's the story that so many send out wrong and pressure into people's hearts through shame or guilt. It's a tale that can only be believed and lived when it is first felt in you. One of truth, of trial and of telling it right. I am grateful for his ink.
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Oh, this girl. She has a golden light about her. Heavenly full, her eyes are beautiful reservoirs for caution and strength. Her color lines are distinctly different on her picture page of life than those of her sister.
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